The Gloves Are Off

Know my problem? No not that stockings thing. Or that shoe sniffing bit. My problem is I tend to find most movies entertaining to the point where I generally won't have a bad word to say about them. If I don't enjoy it then I simply think it is okay rather than actually bad. With the exceptions of The Golden Compass and The Last Airbender (geez what train-wrecks they were). The latter of which I still can't bring myself to finish even after 5 separate attempts. The past year though has seen a change in this attitude and it all starts with a crazy billionaire in a cowl.

The Dark Knight is without doubt a rather spectacular piece of cinema, one some friends and I had the pleasure of seeing in IMAX scale of awesome. Heath Ledger (rest well) easily made cinema history with his portrayal of the Clown Prince of Crime, evident by the unimaginative many who tried to imitate him for Halloween. Throw in the new dark and troubled Two-Face and the moving picture was a spectacle of the comic book industry on the silver screen, one that made me walk from the screen room post credits with a look of awe, wonder, and braindead-ness; IMAX TDK having left my brains scattered on the back wall.

That disappearing pencil scene. THAT SCENE!

Time went by. We lost a wonderful actor. The new Joker was no more. Suddenly Christopher Nolan's vision for the ultimate Batman movie trilogy was thrown into turmoil with no real life Caped Crusader to right things. Until Bane.

Bane is a wonderful villain notorious on the page for "breaking the bat" yet a laughing stock on screen thanks to that nipple-suited Batman flick. But maybe this time it would be different. So time went by once more until finally it was released; The Dark Knight Rises. Crowds were wowed. Bane retook his place as a true enemy of the Bat. Hidden energy projects. Betrayals. Secrets revealed. Hostages. A bright flash. A nod to a little bird. Credits roll. The same friends I witnessed the splendour of TDK with emerged from the screen room.

"That was fucking awesome."

"Brilliant. What did you think, Liam?"

Hesitantly, "...I got kinda bored. Almost fell asleep at one point."

Don't get me wrong on this, it is not a bad movie, not by a long shot. It's a good movie. But it just didn't wow me. It didn't draw me in. Had it been on TV it may have a warranted a channel surf and a casual "What else is on?"

How could a film based on a comic book (a favourite medium), on a superhero (a favourite character type), done to a blockbuster standard not have impressed me? A question I still cannot answer. Perhaps I just wasn't in the mood. But it happened again. Only this time the hero wasn't wearing tights and a cape, instead he wore a suit and a licence to kill.

James' ADD was acting up again.

James Bond, in his many movie incarnations, has been watched since I was a kid. The back of my skull has a white scar beneath the curls after a shoving incident by a sister; refusing to give up the remote to a bigger and shark-scared sister during an underwater scene is a bad idea in case you wondered. No one could doubt that 007 has been slowly declining in quality over the past few years. Tomorrow Never Dies was the last great Bond flick in my opinion, with Casino Royale having some great scenes but not wowing me overall. Quantum of Solace (I actually couldn't remember the name of it for a moment) was forgettable at best. Actually forgettable. I have no idea what happens in that movie and I know I've seen it. So Skyfall seemed like it could fix things for me, after all, Q was in it. Fucking Q! Spy nerd and gadget-maker extraordinaire!

People saw it and everyone got all excited and said how amazing it was and how you just had to see it. I saw it. It sucked. Most of the first act was nigh on useless and didn't even register with the shiny-thing part of my brain let alone the part that actually thinks. It wasn't until Javier Bardem sauntered in, being a real Bond villain with intelligence, willpower, and a deformity to rival how we feel the morning after a night on the sauce, that things really got interesting. But even then it was like sitting in traffic; fluctuating between "YAY, were moving!" and "I am gonna cut some fool!" at uneven intervals. The epilogue hits and suddenly, for all of 30 seconds, you're watching a James Bond movie. Credits roll. I annoyed more than one person that night with my pseudo-narration of how sorry I was to have watched it.

There it was, two of the biggest blockbusters within 12 months and I probably had more fun scratching myself in the shower that one time than in the collective hours of watching them. Please understand that the shower in question was incredible and I really had to itch. Plus I like putting that thought into your heads...perverts.

Suddenly there were bad things to be said about movies. Movies that had entertained me yet somehow deserved my verbal thrashing. Why, most of this post is just that. So what had changed? Do I feel the films hadn't done justice to the source material? Had they been over-hyped in the media and my mind? Yet it didn't stop at movies, for books and TV shows were now open to my judgement. A switch in me has flipped and with it the critic, scourge of the creative types, has awoken from his 25 year slumber.

It is a rather freeing thing. For much how a brighter light makes a darker shadow, those things that give me joy are now so much more wonderful with my ire and judgement here to balance the equation.

It is a brave new world, my reading friends.

And I am going love and hate it more than ever.

If These Pages Could Talk

The children's books would be running around outside, watched over by the firm guidance of the How-To section.

Meanwhile the Encyclopaedias would sit on the porch in their rocking chairs, mumbling about the war and 'in their day'.

Hunger Games would be in it's room listening to the Music Biographies with the other young adult novels.

Then once it got dark, the Cooking books would call them all inside for dinner before the Romance novels would do their duties of guiding the children's books to bed, and the Adventure novels would regale them with tales of daring-do before they'd fall fast asleep.

Of course single Aunt Mills & Aunt Boon would be downstairs making sure the YA novels weren't checking out the Softcore section.

Then we'd open the bookshop the next morning and it would all start again.

If all the world's a stage then I think our best storytellers should get to act out their lives too.

Roses Are White!

Be honest, the bests roses ARE white.

JANUARY! Month of...diets. I guess.

Not a lot really happens in January, does it? I mean sure there's New Year's Day but everyone knows that's just an extension of New Year's Eve and not really the start of January. January 2nd is actually the first day of the month. So in essence that poem is wrong and January does not have 31 days and all your forebears are lying to you.

February though! Oh now there is a month. The YEAR truly starts then. Seems to be a lot of birthdays that month, plus we all get paid for the first time since Christmas and suddenly our bank accounts aren't hollow abused things whimpering and recoiling at our very touch.

 For one it is home to 2nd Christmas; affectionately referred to by my loved ones as "Liam's Birthday". But to the uneducated and unenlightened it is shot through the centre by a heart-tipped arrow; I am of course talking about the universally reviled and adored Valentine's Day.

Time was Valentine's Day was as important to me as combing my hair, in that it only happened when someone pointed it out. By my late teenage years, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at university, I had become bitter and resentful of things, none more so than THAT day. But by my mid-twenties I was more adjusted, more mature (okay I still laugh at the word penis but come on! PENIS) and was generally a happier fellow. This brings us to now, a time when Valentine's Day is a day I look forward to. Not as much as 2nd Christmas though.

Because presents.

PRESENTS.

People will hate it because it reminds them they're alone, or because they say it's a lie conjured up by greetings card companies. You know, because Big Card are this sinister force run by overweight men in thousand dollar suits, smoking cigars wrapped in bible pages and drinking scotch chilled by frozen orphan tears. A lie because you should tell people and show them that you love them everyday. To them I say this:

YOU ARE WRONG

Tell'em Lexxy, baby!

We need Valentine's Day for one very good reason and that reason is simple: The affection shown on Valentine's Day means more because it is expected. Much in the same way not receiving anything can hurt more. Of course telling someone you love them everyday is great, but receiving flowers and gifts all the time would cause them to lose all importance. Imagine you could show off your beer belly in public 365 days of the year instead of the usual 312. It just wouldn't be a treat any longer!
It is important. Factor in the the truth about me, that beneath the rippling muscles, chiselled jawline, and flowing curled locks I am in fact a soft, squishy pile of mushy romantic, and Valentine's Day is a time I can make silly gestures and brighten someone's day even more.

How you celebrate the day is entirely up to you and yours though. Be it by going on a trip together, drinking alone, or simply buying flowers and snuggling on the sofa, a gift on the day of love is more than a gift. You don't have to buy a card. I for one hate buying cards for any occasion; they seem kind of pointless when you could do something for someone instead. Unless of course they're these cards.
Yes whether or not that little cherub has hit you with his arrow or if the little fucker was drinking on the job and hit the person next you instead, Valentine's Day is a good day. If you have that special someone (or someones you saucy polygamists) then there's no excuse to not celebrate the day. If you don't have someone to share it with though, well, there's no excuse not to brighten someone's day is there. Love or not.

After all, who doesn't like presents? Because PRESENTS.

2012 Part 2 - 2013: Cusack's Revenge

IT'S BIGGER! (it's not)

IT'S BADDER! (it really isn't)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S TOO MUCH FOR MR. INCREDIBLE! (...)

See. Goatee. He's evil now.

13 is actually a lucky number in some cultures. Not in ours of course so for all we know the Mayans were right and rather than the world coming to some dramatic end, Western civilization is merely beginning to cease to be while places like China become the new Tom Cruise to our Steven Seagal.
 Sure we had our fun; Eurovision; NASCAR; men pretending to be rivals in a square 'ring' while wearing spandex and enough body butter to induce coronaries in anyone looking too closely. The point is it's all change. Loose change, but change nonetheless. So rather than the cosmos throwing a wad of cash at our collective faces we should actually expect a few stray pennies now and then.

Heavy on the metaphors there. More like metafives, amirirte?


HI INTERNETZ! Check me out. Posting and shit. Why it's as if I wanted to be a writer or something. Yes change is here and it is most certainly not in my pocket, so in order to fix that I need to get working on this success lark. You know the one I'm talking about.

1) Acquire impressive skillset/dick
2) Become famous using impressive skillset/dick
3) Amass vast fortune and wealth/STD collection
4) Make a sex tape/obscene sex tape

Admittedly that checklist may be describing the life and times of Dirk Diggler and I can tell you right now that I do not have the necessary abs to pull off porn (sorry ladies). Can balloon model though. Make of that what you will.

So I'm here. I'm queer, but only in the odd way (sorry gentlemen). And fingers crossed things will flow a little better this year. Like warm butter down a hooker's back.


...still haven't shaken that warm butter addiction. STAY FOXY, WEB PEEPS!